


Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: F/F, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-12 23:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18020105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: My (slightly late) drabbles for Femslash February!





	1. Winter

Jaina let out a huff, her breath escaping through lips pursed in a frown. Hurrying down the steps, she struggled to leave behind the Temple of the White Tiger and all the judgment it represented, to chase away his patronizing words with the click of her heels against stone. How could he humiliate her, act like her feelings meant _nothing_ to him? 

How could he threaten to leave, when he knew she needed him now more than ever?

A crowd of pandaren merchants scattered as she rounded the last bend and made for the path to the Alliance encampment. The grass—glazed with frost—crunched beneath her feet and bit ankles exposed beneath the hem of her robe, but she hardly noticed. Instead she just clutched her cloak and scowled into the distance, seeing _him_ on a snow-capped peak and working out all she wanted to say, all she knew she could never say lest somebody else call her _crazy_ or _unreasonable._

Varian was allowed his outbursts and Vol’jin was lauded for starting a coup over a personal vendetta, but when she lost everything—when she watched everyone she loved scatter like ash from her fingertips—the two men she had trusted the most jumped at the chance to put her in her place. Their blue eyes knew nothing of empathy. They just watched her, patronized her, even, for daring to feel the pain.

If either of them had lost what she had lost, if they had been stripped of everything, they wouldn’t stand on their pedestal and offer forgiveness, but when it was her, they had nothing but beliefs and pleas for peace to stack against her. Peace wasn’t working. It was her belief in peace that left her people vulnerable, not once, but twice, and they couldn’t ask her to keep trying what had already cost her so many lives—

“It isn’t fair,” a voice offered, as if it could read her thoughts. Startled, Jaina turned and found a pair of blue eyes watching from a short distance away. They weren’t Kalec’s, though, or Thrall’s, but Vereesa’s: wide, with a few snowflakes clinging to lashes the color of morning frost. 

Jaina nodded, unclenching a fist she hadn’t caught herself making to smooth back her hair off her shoulders. She was quick to compose herself; she couldn’t risk being scolded again, no matter how much she trusted her friend, no matter how much pain they had shouldered together. She swallowed, willing her voice to steady, before taking a few steps forward. 

“I probably should stay away from the proceedings today,” she finally admitted, when she was certain the words wouldn’t stick in her throat.

Her friend’s lips trembled slightly in response. “I’ve seen quite enough myself.” A kind of silent understanding passed between them, and in a moment Jaina realized Vereesa had heard Kalec’s threats, that she had followed her not because of something that had happened in testimony, but because of him and what he had said. 

Exhaling slightly, she let her shoulders slump. The high elf’s gaze strayed to the arm shaking by her side. “I don’t know if I can do it anymore, Vereesa,” she sighed and watched her breath hang in the space between them. “I’m not sure I can keep supporting him, only to find my own feelings—”

Sidelined? Mocked? Abhorred? She wasn’t sure which word to choose, but thankfully, Vereesa didn’t make her. Instead she reached out and touched her shoulder. Her small fingers, though chilled by the wind, still left her chest feeling warm. 

“You have tried everything, I know. You even worked with them to bring Garrosh here, and they continue to say you need to forgive and forget. As far as I can tell, you’ve forgiven better than most— certainly better than they deserve.”

“I know. And in return they’ve put on this circus rather than doing what needs to be done.”

The words escaped before the had a chance to consider them, but Vereesa’s gentle squeeze calmed any fear that they might be used against her. Grateful, she took a step forward. Vereesa’s hand slid from her shoulder down to the crook of her elbow, and then from her forearm down to her waist. She responded in kind, wrapping her arms around her and guiding her into an embrace.

Vereesa’s hands disappeared beneath her cloak, and her head rested carefully against the crook of Jaina’s neck. When she exhaled, Jaina felt its heat rustle through her hair. Tilting her head slightly, she brushed against her ear. They lingered like that for a moment, tightening their grip as a gust of cold wind hissed through the grass around them, shuffling closer to escape the shiver it threatened to draw up their backs, until, finally, Vereesa murmured:

“He might not understand, Jaina, but I do. You never need to apologize for your grief.”

Looking down at the other woman, Jaina summoned a ghost of a smile; though faint, it was the first sincere, unguarded look she had managed since they arrived at the trial. Vereesa’s own gaze softened. Not letting herself hesitate, she leaned down and brushed their lips together. Against her chest, she felt Vereesa holding her breath, her fingers pressing against her waist and her ears trembling gently against her cheek. 

When Jaina finally leaned back, it was with a slight blush she hoped but knew better than to think would be mistaken for wind-chapped cheeks. Reaching down, she trailed the pad of her thumb along the high elf’s cheek, and then up to wipe a few snowflakes from her brow. Neither knew what to say, but it didn’t seem to matter. The smile they shared, that moment of mutual understanding, was more than enough to fill the gap in their words. 

Because Vereesa, Jaina knew, saw her heart in ways Kalec or Thrall never could. She felt the same pain, the same desperation and longing that tightened in Jaina’s chest when she leaned down and claimed her lips in another kiss.


	2. Spring

The Arcwine poised between Liadrin’s fingers rippled slightly as she leaned back against the balcony. A cool breeze rustled her ponytail, and in it she felt a kind of magical affect that ensured protection against the gales she knew must be howling beyond the city’s limits. It felt like Silvermoon in many ways—from the hum of party-goers filling the street below to the pristine scent of lilies and perfumed water—but not least of all in the way Thalyssra smiled when she approached. 

“Lady Liadrin,” she greeted.

Liadrin responded with a single nod, raising her glass in toast. “First Arcanist,” she murmured. Although she fell back on her old formalities, she couldn’t conceal the warmth beneath those words. 

She had grown accustomed to the Nightborne’s presence during their siege on the Nighthold, coming to admire her determination and commitment to saving her people. And now, with Elisande’s defeat still fresh in their minds, that same comradery seemed to swell, fostering a lightness the blood knight couldn't quite name. Maybe it was simply the potent Arcwine rising to her cheeks, but either way, she let down her guard, and offered the woman a rare smile.

“I hope you and your knights are enjoying Suramar’s hospitality. It pleases me to finally receive you and your people in proper shal’dorei fashion, not hiding in caves and tents outside of the city.”

“My knights are accustomed to tents,” Liadrin admitted, though the ghost of her smile still lingered. “But I am sure they are finding the masquerade a welcome reprieve. I suspect Grand Magister Rommath and Archmage Aethas are enjoying their tour of the vineyards, as well.”

Thalyssra inclined her head ever-so-slightly, her white hair swaying beneath her hood. It seemed to catch something of the starlight glittering over their heads, and that sparkle drew Liadrin’s gaze, against all of her best intentions. She pursed her lips and tried not to look distracted. If the First Arcanist noticed her wavering eye contact, however, she didn’t let it show.

Instead she approached and joined the sin’dorei at the balcony, leaning her right side against the rail, “To be honest, I’m not sure they ever made it to the vineyard. When I last saw them, Chief Telemancer Oculeth seemed bent on showing them one of the leyline feeds outside the city limits. Though if I know Oculeth like I believe I do, I’m sure wine will likewise be involved.”

Liadrin glanced into her own glass—now half-drained—and smiled. A laugh threatened to rise to her lips, “Yes, well, I am sure the Grand Magister will enjoy that immensely, as well.”

It was intended as a joke, but something in it seemed to draw Thalyssra’s attention. She took a step closer, gesturing to the party below, waiting until Liadrin followed her gaze before continuing, “Our people aren’t so different, it seems. We stand at opposite ends of history, and yet our customs and cultures resonate so strongly with one another. It feels like finding a long-lost treasure, standing among your people.”

“As does standing among yours,” Liadrin confessed, easier and more casual, perhaps, than she had intended. “In a way, it feels to me like coming home.” 

The Arcwine’s warmth settled and spread in her chest, cloaking the world around her in a haze that drew certain details into the foreground. From the musical lilt in Thalyssra’s voice to the way her hair swayed when she leaned forward, Thalyssra’s presence consumed her thoughts. The sky overhead and the party bubbling with laughter below, on the other hand, felt several miles away. 

Finally, after a pause and another sip from her glass, she continued in earnest, solemn admission: “We understand your hunger, as well. Before the Sunwell was purged, I felt it gnawing away at me from the inside. Every day it drove me further into despair.”

“Until every thought, every breath, was bent only on satiating that need, I know,” Thalyssra continued, sighing slightly as she turned her gaze away from the street and up to the violet sky. “I hope now that era will finally come to an end, and we can live as we once did, strong and dignified.”

“You will. Trust me, you will.” 

This time it was Liadrin who moved closer, not stopping until the top of her arm brushed against Thalyssra’s bare skin. Though meant as a kind of comforting gesture, when they met a breath caught in the blood knight’s throat. Whatever spark had transpired seemed to pass through Thalyssra, as well, because she straightened and then, after glancing down at their point of contact, began in a softer voice, “It is my hope that your people…you, even, will maintain relations with us even now that the resistance has ended.”

“Of course,” Liadrin heard the words leave her lips, heard how eager they sounded, but she couldn’t help it. The wine had loosened her tongue, and all she could do now was clear her throat and try to follow them up with a slightly more formal, “What I mean to say is it would be my pleasure.”

She could feel Thalyssra’s gaze on her face, her lavender eyes straying to her lips as they twitched slightly at the corners. That warmth that had passed through them now spread, blossomed, even, like the evening lilies leaning in to watch from each side of the terrace. 

Breathing in their scent and the cool night air, she took a chance and brushed her fingers along the back of Thalyssra’s hand. The shal’dorei was ready to greet her, flicking her wrist, then lacing their hands together in a squeeze and a murmur that conveyed all that had built up between them, and more:

“No, Lady Liadrin.” Moonlight caught on her lips when she smiled. Thalyssra inclined her head in a graceful bow that sent her white hair swaying and glimmering around her neck, like a veil made from the stars themselves. Liadrin swallowed, swirling her glass with one hand, while the other tightened its grip Thalyssra, though she didn’t dare glance at their point of contact.

“Believe me,” The Nightborne whispered, against all Liadrin’s thoughts to the contrary, “The pleasure is all mine.”


	3. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change! <3

When Draka volunteered to stay behind in Gorgrond to build ties with the Laughing Skull clan nothing could have prepared her for the heat. Thick, oppressive, like drowning in a sea of air, every step felt like walking in the lava fields north of Wor’gol. But Kaz didn’t even hesitate, running ahead in the steam like she was walking in a pleasant afternoon shower.

“This way,” she grunted, before disappearing into the thick undergrowth. The next thing Draka heard was a crack, some kind of knife striking wood. Pushing her way through the leaves, she emerged at the foot of a tree where Kaz stood admiring a snake she had impaled on the trunk. Its blood rolled down the bark and hit her boots with a soft ‘splsh.’

The Frostwolf stepped in beside her. “Poisonous?” She chanced a guess, before glancing over at her companion. It was difficult to read her expression behind her mask’s toothy grin, and, not knowing what else to say, Draka just settled for offering a small smile of her own.

But Kaz just laughed and reached out to tug the snake free. Stuffing it into her knapsack, she wiped her hands on her leather pants, leaving ten red smears and a smudge of dirt in her wake. It was the kind of casual brutality Draka had come to expect from the Laughing Skull, but it was nothing next to the rumors that had kept her and her clan out of Gorgrond for so many years. 

It was erratic and fierce, but not needlessly destructive. There was still some kind of purpose to it.

Kaz chuckled, her ponytail swaying as she shook her head. “This? No, it’s dinner.”

Soon they were back on the trail, if it could even be called a trail. A far cry from the road down the length of Gorgrond built by the Blackrock clan, the Laughing Skull paths, it seemed, were little more than footprints beaten into the mud. After a few sharp turns and one felled bush, the Shrieker gestured to a red flower that, she explained, marked the final leg back to Evermorn Springs. 

All the while, Draka fought to breathe, the pungent aroma of rotten fruit turning her stomach and sweat clinging to her brow.

She had never been so pleased to see water glimmering through the bushes. Though it was veiled in some kind of unnatural golden light, she followed Kaz to the shore without hesitation, scooping it into her palms and pouring it onto her face. 

By the time she lowered her hands, the other woman had removed her shirt and cast it onto the grass. She now sat before Draka, bare-breasted, with that same uncanny smile on her still-masked face. 

Draka’s heart caught in her throat. The water she had splashed on her cheeks did little to ease their burn. 

Unable to stop herself, she let her gaze stray, following the swell of her breasts to nipples pierced through with bone. Scars cut across the orc’s skin, forming an elaborate pattern that picked up the shine from the pond. Draka had to tear away her gaze, staring, instead, at a flower sprouting from the bank. It almost felt unfair that Kaz should sit before her with her own face concealed, her own expression unchanging, while Draka struggled and bit her upper lip.

“You’re sweating, little Frostwolf,” Kaz mused, leaning over to wash her hands. Draka finally chanced a look, following the curve of her spine up to her light brown hair.

“I guess your people aren’t used to the heat.”

“Frostfire Ridge is a land of fire and ice,” Draka tried to defend herself, but her voice came out far more strained than she intended, “I’m no stranger to extremes.”

“But you still keep yourself covered,” the Laughing Skull pointed out. Sitting up, she extended a hand towards Draka’s fur-lined vest, not touching it, yet, but hovering an inch or two above the clasp. The gap between them now ached to be filled. Draka shook, but, almost subconsciously, shifted forward, not stopping until the pads of the Laughing Skull’s fingers brushed against the hook holding her clothing in place.

It didn’t take long until she ended up on her back.

Pressing her shoulders into the mud, she arched upwards, enjoying the way Kaz’s nipples teased the curve of her own small breasts. Her scars felt thick and smooth when they brushed along Draka’s collarbone, and her fingertips strong as they clutched at her sides. 

Every gesture was as surprising as it was deliberate, from the way she nuzzled her still-masked face against Draka’s neck to the fluid motion her hips found rocking against Draka’s thigh, and all with a wild air as unbridled as the forest wrapping around them. Her skin was hot, and her breath hissed softly between the bones that concealed her lips. When she tilted her head, Draka could almost catch a glimpse of her eyes, but then their shimmer was gone. She threw back her head and moaned, and Draka trembled, digging her nails into the grass tickling her sides.

The Shrieker wasted no time in opening her belt and sliding a finger between her lips. She knew the evidence of her arousal must be obvious, but she couldn’t make herself care, too lost in her own gasps and the jolt that passed through her body. She shuddered. Her hair clung—sweat-soaked—to her cheeks and stuck against Kaz’s bare chest. Skin against skin, they moved as one, Kaz teasing and Draka arcing to satiate the need that built deep inside her. 

There was something about Kaz the Shrieker: not a madness, as her own people had warned, but a kind of spark, a growl that rumbled behind bone teeth like the geysers that rocked the earth north of Beastwatch. Draka felt it in the thud of her heart, the swell of her fingers pressing into her body. She basked in her heat, all but losing herself as she fought through the jerk of her hips and the weight of the air between them to draw in a shaky breath.


	4. Fall

Jaina expected to find solitude when she escaped into the gardens behind Stormwind Keep, but someone, she realized, had gotten the same idea. Approaching her favorite spot at the crest of the hill, she found a single shadow cut against the autumn moonlight. The figure turned and her crown shimmered like a halo of stars. 

Clutching her mug of cider, Jaina offered a slight bow of her head in return, murmuring as soon as she had come into earshot: “I’m sorry. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

But the High Priestess shook her head, her teal locks swaying against her chest, “I simply had had enough of the crowds inside. It feels false, celebrating the dead in such a lighthearted fashion. My people need prayers, not costumes.”

“It should have been cancelled this year. It’s a forsaken holiday. It has no place in Stormwind.”

Jaina’s admission seems to spark some kind of understanding between them. Where Tyrande had stood poised and elegant in the moonlight upon her approach, now she let down her guard. Her shoulders relaxed into gentle slopes, and when she spoke again, it was to sigh and agree in a voice devoid of her usual polish: “Yes, well, the boy king and his friends love their parties. I wish I, too, could go back to a time I knew little of loss.”

‘He just lost his father,’ Jaina felt herself forming the words, but now, after all that had happened, even her love for her nephew didn’t spur her to his defense. However, Tyrande must have seen the struggle on her lips, because she cut in.

“I mean your king no disrespect. I see him as a sapling who has weathered more storms than most his age, but few beside those who wish to advise him.”

“He’s idealistic, I know,” Jaina trailed off for a moment, toying with the white ends of her braid. A cool breeze cut through the space between them, the smell of leaves and hot cider doing little to assuage the tension that had spread from her chest to the small of her back. Finally, she yielded. She had spent far too long being the kind follower, the peacekeeper, and it had gotten her nowhere. Now she wanted to speak freely. 

Setting aside her mug on the grass, she approached Tyrande, and conceded, “I think you should demand Alliance forces in Darkshore. We couldn’t save your people then, but he—we—owe you that much now.”

“He insists on keeping our focus on Arathi, claiming that an attack on Darkshore will do nothing to bring back the dead.”

“So it won’t. Nothing will undo what happened to your people that day. But at least you can set fire to the blight wagons and make those Horde soldiers pay for what they have done. It won’t bring back the dead, but at least it will bring you justice!”

Jaina didn’t realize how strained her voice had become until she had to fight through her finishing words. With a lump thick in her throat, she swallowed, and drew in a shaky breath. Her shoulders felt tight, her arms quivering slightly by her sides. But in the moon-white glow of Tyrande’s eyes, she found neither the unease or the kind of judgment with which her moments of vulnerability were usually regarded.

Instead, she just found a nod, and a soft, assenting murmur: “Those are my thoughts as well, yes. I plan to proceed, with or without the High King’s approval.”

“As you should. You will always have my support in the matter.”

“And you will have mine, as well.”

Jaina finally closed the distance between them, coming to stand with Tyrande at the crest of the hill overlooking the lake. Another soft breeze rustled through the trees below, sending their fiery leaves scattering on the water like ashes still caught in a blaze. 

Jaina hadn’t been in Stormwind the day the kaldorei refugees arrived, but she had heard the stories: night elf children and merchants with singed clothing and char smudging their faces. Some of them had wept, but most had stood apart from their companions, cold and dignified, speaking little of the horrors they had witnessed. 

When she looked into Tyrande’s eyes, she saw that same kind of solemnity, so different from the wild, unbridled emotion that had plagued Jaina like a storm in the months following Theramore. But she didn’t believe for a moment their pain was different or that, separated by thousands of years though they were, Tyrande felt the cold sting of loss or guilt’s oppressive weight any differently. 

Instead she knew that the emotion in Tyrande’s white eyes, as pale and cool as the autumn moon, ran as deep with power as the moonwells that sustained her people. Though the two women had once been at odds on Kalimdor, never seeing eye-to-eye when it came to dealing with the Horde, now they were a unified force. She found something there—rage, understanding, loss—that drew her closer, and she didn’t stop until she had rested her hand against the High Priestess’ arm.

Rather than reacting to the contact, Tyrande just cast her gaze downwards. For a moment Jaina feared she had let her own emotion get the better of her, crossing a line she should have maintained, but then the kaldorei looked up, her cool eyes casting their halo of light upon Jaina's drawn lips and white hair.

“I treasure your support, Lady Proudmoore, as do my people. We will finally see justice done on Kalimdor.”

“As we should have done, many years ago,” Jaina admitted, her voice low. Her breath hitched slightly, but the sound was lost to the wind. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the High Priestess, they lingered, watching the moon cast its face upon the water, piercing through both red leaves and brown to shimmer and dance in the night.


End file.
